for every float, there must be a drowning
by thexlittlexlisa
Summary: She'll always be too good for him. — Damon


**for every float,  
there must be a drowning**

_and if you are in love,  
then you are the lucky one,  
because most of us  
are bitter over someone._

It's as if one day he wakes up to a premonition. He gets up, gets dressed, gets to the Gilbert house like every other day, entering through the door to find _him_ quizzing her for some geography test (_because Elena was always horrible at remembering places, events that take place there, the subtle impact or consequence of the little things_) she's supposed to have on Monday and he simply realizes it, like it's some fact of life (_nothing landmark, epic, historical, life-changing_).

She'll always be too good for him.

No matter how hard he tries, no matter how much he changes, no matter how far he goes to become the man (_that could never really be him_) a girl like her (_someone nice, kind, caring, loyal_) deserves, he never will be.

Besides, she's the type of girl who would never want a guy to change for him. She likes taking things for what they are, no matter how hard that might be – she's told him that a thousand times, rolling her eyes but grinning at him, making it clear what (_or who_) she's talking about.

(And if it ever came down to it, if she ever asked why, he'd tell her it was the other way around in a heartbeat.)

* * *

There is always something funny to him.

Call him cruel, sadistic, weird, tactless, attention-seeking, whatever, but something is always funny, something will always make him laugh at the most random, most likely inappropriate moments, cause a few eyebrows to be raised, a few mouths to turn downwards in disapproving or astounding frowns.

He can't stop laughing. He can't stop anything. Nothing will ever be in his control and the thought should be sort of scary but nothing scares him, nothing can stop him, so he laughs instead.

He laughs till tears roll down his cheeks and his sides sort of hurt, till the world promises to bring him down to where he belongs (_and secretly he wants to stop but he won't tell anyone) _and all he can breathe out is a "try and stop me"_._

Around him, he sees forest green eyes mixed with brown filled with concern and he can't find the other pair of brown eyes (_he's the only one with the blue pair out of the three of them, makes him stick out like a sore thumb even more than he already does_) but he's sure it's here somewhere—

A hand touches his back (_there she is_) and he shivers a little as she leans into him and whispers against his hair softly, "_Stop_."

He wants to relinquish in the texture of the word, the slight firmness and worry set in place with the feeling of a familiar warm breath against his dark strands as he slowly quiets down (_not for her, never for her_).

He wants to burrow his head against her chest, make a place for himself there that is only his, will always remain his and no one else's, and lay his head there when the world won't stop for him and he won't stop for it and everything (_offenses, defenses, the fighting_) gets a little too overwhelming even for someone as fearless as him.

(_stopstopstop_) He wants to tell her if she promises to never stop speaking into his ear like this, he'll listen to her every single time without one sign of resistance.

(She's the only thing that holds him back from being unstoppable.)

* * *

She tells him when she was little she wanted to be an airplane.

He laughs out loud because that's such a Gilbert (_Petrova?_) response.

She laughs too and he thinks this might just be another accidental coincidence (_thing_) that brings them closer, makes them similar between the lines, underneath the subtext – this constant, gnawing need to be moving, doing something, being somewhere, as long as it's not being stuck to the ground or one place – beneath the caring and always friendly helpful being, (_the striking, frustrating, blatantly obvious differences in their thought processes and actions)_, there is something (_a volatile spark, erratically fast heartbeats, and a spontaneous flame that's meant to engulf itself inevitably_).

And maybe this is what swing sets, playground sand and childhood wishes fleeting away, no matter how far you run after them, leave you with: a bitter aftertaste and a clump of faded and burned out star dust that used to once sparkle (_like the one in her hair)_ and whispers of a fountain of youth, of endless possibilities and new heights trailing behind sun-kissed, chubby legs like unravelling ribbons, of glasshouse days filled with carpe diem dreams.

He jumps off the swing set and takes her with him, draws her arms out, and pretends to zoom around the playground (with her) like she's flying as high as an airplane up in the blue skies above them and you could call this some type of mocking but in reality it's not, (_not to him_).

The wind carries his chuckle and he knows she enjoys this (because _that's _what is similar between them), spinning around him (_like the universe spins around the sun_) till she feels the dizziness seep into her head and turn it upside down, inside out and when she stops suddenly, holding her head but still smiling, he's there to steady her step like always, he's there to help her sit down on one of the swings and hold her lightly so she doesn't fall down backwards and hit her head against the dunes of sand.

She presses her nose into the collar of his jacket collar, inhales the scent of fabric softener and laundry detergent and cleanliness, (_something like the real home (s)he'll never have_) and everything feels too deliriously good to be true.

She wraps her hands around his neck and moves her face away from his shoulder and looks him right in the eyes and slaps him lightly as reality sinks in again. "Don't need your help," she chastises him with a muffled tone, her eyes cast downward (_she_ _feels guilty, he knows_)

"Never," he reassures her, his eyes contradicting his word, (_because they both know what the truth is_).

(He wants to tell her she's the only thing that will ever come close to feeling like a home to him.)

* * *

He looks at her, studies her side profile, before she turns her sleepy brown eyes towards him and it's too late in the night for this but she doesn't care. She yawns, laying her head against his shoulder, and nestling a place for herself between the crook of his neck and shoulder to fall asleep against.

There's no tension in her limbs and she likes the feel of his well-defined jaw line against the top of her head as he looks down at her, his eyes slightly darker than before. Friends might or might not act like this, but she doesn't care anymore which way it's supposed to be.

They sit there for eternity, letting the world pass by _hours_and_hours_and_hours_ as he looks out the window, she dozes off against him. He wraps his jacket around her and runs his hand up and down her arm in an attempt to keep her warm and this may never be anything more, he may never deserve her, but he'll take these little moments, (_these little places and tuck them away for greyer days)._

She hears the vibration of his cell phone from the front of his jean pocket, but he doesn't even make an attempt to take it out and see whose calling him.

"You're going to get that, Damon?" She asks without thinking, the collar of his black jacket tickling her lips. She thinks she likes the feeling of her cold nose pressed against his warm skin (_ironic, she knows_) too much to actually care how he's about his answer.

"Maybe later," he replies distractedly, not even bothering too look at her as he keeps caressing her arm with his fingertips.

She raises her head slightly, not liking the confused, torn look on his face. She blows warm air into his ear because she knows how much it annoys him and it works like a charm, as he gets instantly agitated and starts ranting about when she'll ever learn to not treat a Vampire like that (_he could have bitten her head off, for all she knows, he says_).

And the cycle of teasing, bickering, and verbally sparring repeats (_but no matter how many times they do this, it never gets boring_).

(And this is the one thing he'd never let go off, it's what makes them who they are with each other, and he wouldn't have it any other way.)

* * *

One day she realizes there is so much more.

And then, out of nowhere, the anger starts to swell inside of her (_because she hates to betray Stefan, especially with him_), threatening to burst and in a fit of rage, she takes the glass of whiskey next to him and throws it against the floor.

There is a sickly silence as he takes in the broken pieces of the glass and then he smirks, "What's gotten into you Cat Wo—"

She shrieks wildly, in disbelief that the insensitive jerk is trying to crack a joke, before pouncing on him and making both of them topple back towards the ground in a messy frenzy. (_he knows that she knows, he just fell for her_)

She hits his chest repeatedly, yells, curses, claws, tells him over and over again how much she _hates _him and it's a first that she's gone to this much of an extent of violence with him (_not that it hurt him, on the outside_), but it feels so good, a nice way to release everything bottled up inside of her (_like poetic justice being served for all the disappointment, disenchantment and mixed feelings he's caused her without even knowing it_) and somewhere in the middle of the scene she's creating, in the middle of all the physical and verbal abuse she's giving him, she realizes he isn't saying one word or trying to fight her off.

He's just taking it. (He never _just_ takes it).

He stares at her like she's the most wonderful human on this planet (_still_), peering at her with a strange, glassy look in his deep blue eyes. She breathes in and out heavily, choking on a ragged laugh, "So is this how it's going to be?"

"How's what going to be?" he asks.

"You know," she starts lamely, "now that Stefan and I are—" She can't finish the sentence, but her voice is strangled, and she wants to tell him how she's never been more scared in her life, that_ if_ she had a worst fear in her life (_because of course she doesn't_) it would be this: a lonely estrangement.

She closes her eyes tight, wishing for all this to go away, for none of this to have ever happened (_the kiss, the closeness, everything at all_), and that's when she feels a pair of arms wrap around her neck hesitantly, drawing her closer.

"It's never going to change, what you and me have," he promises and she takes a shaky breath in and forces a nod, because what if she does want it to change (_what if she not?_), what if she has for a long time, and now it has, but not (_never_) in the a way she expected (_wanted_) it to (_because what if it's too late to go back now_).

There's a tense pause and then he gives her a small side smile, an attempt to break away from the stifling air hanging between them, "Spare your power for Darth Mikaelson,"

She shakes her head gently, feeling defeated and so very tired, still she chuckles "Klaus Vader isn't even worth the punches, Damon."

(_he laughs, it's a first for her to respond to his jokes_)

And it occurs to her that this is what they are. This is what they are always going to be. This is what they are meant to be (_dysfunctional, explosive, unhealthy, complicated, wrong_). They are supposed to be best friends born out of and bonded through inconvenience.

Who would want it any other way?

"Besides I don't want to scare you off too much. Just a few punches, slaps here and there, and I definitely wouldn't live through that, you know?"

He pushes a strand of chocolate hair behind her ear with one hand. "I know."

(And he's pretty sure he'll always love (need) her more than she loves (needs) him.)

* * *

She slides her hand into his and his heart clenches (_because it shouldn't feel right, when it's absolutely wrong_), hurts (_like moths in hell_), protests (_an uproar of lovehate_), but he still knots his fingers through hers and squeezes back just to make sure she's actually here (_with him_) and it's like being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

(But maybe, just maybe, they could stay — live, _lovehate_, linger — like this forever.)

He wishes it didn't have to be this way.

* * *

**A/N:** Characters are totally out of order, so don't mess with me about it. Takes place during the time Stefan is with Klaus Mikaelson and somewhat before (the scene where Damon is totally laughing his ass off, is supposed to be after Rose's death). Listened to this one song the whole day, so I had to write something, this came around then. Just something to show the confusing between Elena's feelings for Damon as a _friend_ and as a _love interest_.

Review people, took me a lot of time!


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